


keep your eyes on me

by Hymn



Series: Hymn's Fic: The Mandalorian Collection [5]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: A Little Bit Crack Fic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate title: THIRST, Entirely Absurd, F/M, Fluff, For Fun And Giggles, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Single Dad Din Djarin, Starring Cara Dune's Biceps, The Feels Got In The Way Y'all, friends to (eventual) lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22206055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hymn/pseuds/Hymn
Summary: It starts like this:“I’m starving,” Cara says, because she is. Din is walking beside her, the both of them bobbing upstream toward the precinct through the heavy current of pedestrians in the park. Weekend traffic, Cara likes to call it. The park is sun-dappled and warm, loud and congested; everyone’s excited about the first hint of summer in the air. But every time a dad with a stroller or a teen on a bike separate them they fall back into step again, their elbows knocking companionably.Din says, “Funny. There’s a hot dog cart right up there,” and points.
Relationships: Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Cara Dune & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Cara Dune & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Cara Dune/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Series: Hymn's Fic: The Mandalorian Collection [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561399
Comments: 75
Kudos: 181





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 100% i am not supposed to start any new WIPs because i actually do not deal well with the stress of trying to finish them! HOWEVER: i have a bunch of work to do this weekend and this idea will NOT leave me alone so, in the hopes of getting some work done, i am... doing the thing... where i start a new WIP. T_T 
> 
> a few things - this is entirely lazy and meant to be fun and silly and fairly short, i know nothing about how murder solving gets done, writing mando without the armor and helmet is WEIRD, some of the backstory and headcanon for cara in this is inspired by gina carano but only a little because i'd feel way too creepy actually researching her, and also 
> 
> this goes out to all you thirsty Gina/Cara fans out there, of which i am most definitely included <3

  
  
  
  
It starts like this:

“I’m starving,” Cara says, because she is. Din is walking beside her, the both of them bobbing upstream toward the precinct through the heavy current of pedestrians in the park. Weekend traffic, Cara likes to call it. The park is sun-dappled and warm, loud and congested; everyone’s excited about the first hint of summer in the air. But every time a dad with a stroller or a teen on a bike separate them they fall back into step again, their elbows knocking companionably.

Din says, “Funny. There’s a hot dog cart right up there,” and points.

He doesn’t need to point. They’ve taken their lunch breaks here more than once when Cara decides they need a breath of fresh air. The old woman who owns the cart knows them both by name and exactly what condiments they like. Din’s just being a shit because he mentioned wanting Thai earlier, which Cara hates, and now he knows she’s outmaneuvered him.

Cara says, “Imagine that. What a perfectly timed coincidence!”

“Mm.”

Cara glances at him, sees the smile: eyes crinkling, corners of his mouth deepening. It’s subtle, like most of Din’s expressions are, but after three months partnering up Cara likes to think she knows how to read his face. She’s a detective for fuck’s sake. It’d be embarrassing if she couldn’t.

She smirks. “You’re buying.”

“Not a chance.”

“You’re definitely buying,” Cara insists. “Last week at the pub, game of darts. Remember? Winner gets dinner.”

“...This isn’t _dinner_ , Dune.”

Cara shrugs, stepping to the side to avoid a stumbling toddler. When she ambles back into place their hips bump, shoulders grazing. She says, “You think I’m that choosy? I’m hungry _now_. And I don’t have any cash on me, so I’m calling in that bet.”

“And you couldn’t have let me buy you Thai?”

Cara looks at him solemnly: “You know how I feel about peanuts.”

Din sighs.

By this point they’re at the hot dog stand. “Hello, officers!” calls Pat, who always likes to exclaim loudly their occupation and fusses that they never show up in uniform. Din’s tried more than once to explain that they’re plain clothes detectives, but it never seems to stick. Personally, Cara thinks Pat has a uniform kink. She’s been waiting for the right moment to tell Din about it: probably when he’s mid sip of something. She wants to see if she can make him do a spit-take.

“Hello, Pat!” Cara waves.

They settle into the back of the line and resume their argument. But now that they’re not walking Din’s turned to face her, his arms crossed and hip cocked. He might have the kind of poker-face that gets jokes made about him secretly being a robot, but Cara knows an unimpressed, exasperated stare when it's pointed at her. Besides, it’s not like there aren’t plenty of other clues. Din’s hysterically emotive even when he’s trying hard not to be. Right now? He’s not trying at all.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I'm hungry. And since we're already here...” Cara shrugs, biting at her lip to try and cut down on the smug grinning. Doesn’t do her much good, but she likes to think Din appreciates the effort.

He stares at her a minute before turning back to face the front of the line, muttering, “This doesn’t count as dinner.”

“You sure? I’m giving you an easy out on that bet.”

“I’ll buy you the damn hot dog,” Din says, voice hitching toward gruff. “But I’m still treating you to dinner. My place next Friday. Eight.”

Cara isn’t going to say no to a home-cooked meal, _or_ in getting to see Din’s kid. That Din seems pretty determined to feed her is obvious, though Cara doesn’t get why. It’s not like he thinks she’s starving; he saw her put away a whole plate of eggs and three sausage patties just that morning. Still, his posture is getting all tight again, so Cara figures it's time to throw in the towel. 

“All right, all right,” she says, jostling him with an elbow. “You drive a hard bargain, Djarin. I guess I can babysit while you cook.”

“Good,” he huffs, jostling back.

It’s shaping into a nice afternoon. Lazy, cheerful; the park alive with laughter. Their morning was a grueling four hour stint of taking witness statements for a double-homicide, no suspects. Each dead end had coiled tension tighter and tighter up Cara’s spine, stiffening her shoulders. Din, she knows, feels the same. They haven’t resigned themselves to not being able to solve the case, but they’ve been around long enough to know how bad the odds are shaping up to be. This though, this makes her feel a bit better. 

“Thanks,” she says.

Din lifts a shoulder an inch, as if to say: Don’t worry about it.

When they get to the front of the line Cara steps aside, out of the way. Lets Pat get her fill of Din with his messy dark hair and big brown eyes, that handsome, stoic face. Pat’s always adding extra relish to his dog, and Cara always laughs about it. 

Three months seems a pretty short amount of time for so many things to change, but they have. Cara feels brighter, bolder, _better_ than she has in years. Her last precinct had been a crackling cesspit of tension, getting worse and worse until they finally loaned her out just to get rid of her for a while. It was only supposed to be for a few weeks, but now here she is three months later in a partnership that _works_ and with a Captain who actually likes her.

She’s never felt so comfortable, which is probably why she takes her shirt off. 

After her MMA days were done she’d gotten into the habit of covering up, even at the gym. At work it’s always plain black button downs with the sleeves rolled midway up her forearm, the bottom four buttons done up. She doesn’t even think about it anymore; got so used to avoiding comments about her thick arms and broad shoulders and lack of feminine allure that she’s always armored against them now. 

But today, when the heat of standing in the sun starts to get to her, she goes ahead and untucks her shirt, pops those four buttons, and shucks it off. It’s a relief, but her neck still feels too hot where her hair falls against it, so she ties the shirt around her waist so she can reach up to put back her hair. 

That’s when it happens.

Din turns, a hot dog in each hand. 

What he sees next is Cara as he’s never seen her before: ribbed tank top and biceps bare. It’s not like she’s never seen herself in a mirror before, putting her hair up. She _knows_ what that does to her arms, how it makes them flex in time with the motion of her hands winding the band round and round. She just doesn’t expect Din to react the way he does about seeing it himself, first time or not.

He drops both hot dogs.

“Fuck,” he bites out, movements jerky and uncoordinated as he tries to catch them. But there’s no saving them. Instead, one of them smears along his dark jeans, lands with a splat of relish on his left boot. The other -- _Cara’s_ \-- just somersaults gracefully out of its bun and through the air before bouncing off the ground, right into the waiting jaws of a passing dog on a walk. 

“Uh,” says Cara. 

Din stares at the dog. 

No, Din _glares_ at the dog while looking quietly mortified. But the dog’s far gone, tail wagging, and it’s just Cara and Din and a ruined lunch, part of which Din is currently _wearing_. Slowly, Cara brings her arms back down. She’s not really sure how to feel about this; how to read Din’s reaction. It’s too weird, too different than what she would ever have expected. 

He says, “I’ll just-- uh.”

Cara finally gets her brain back online. “Hold up, Djarin,” she says, eyebrows high. “If you move that’s just gonna get worse. Give me your wallet, since you can’t be trusted with food apparently. I’ll get you some napkins. Clean up while I get us some replacements, yeah?”

His shoulders slump; he lifts his chin, staring up at the swaying leaves overhead, still with that look of quiet mortification tightening his features. Cara could swear there’s the faintest flush darkening his cheeks. 

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Okay. Thanks, Dune.”

Bemused, Cara gets Din some napkins and then goes to get their replacements. Pat, who of course saw the whole thing, _tsks_ at her. “Put that money away, Officer Dune! Your partner already paid and I’m not so cruel I’m going to fault him for _that_ reaction.”

“Excuse me?” Cara asks.

Pat looks pointedly at Cara’s biceps. Says, “If you never want to wear a shirt again, that’d be all right in my book. Officer Djarin’s too, I suspect.”

Cara’s too surprised to offer up a response, a startled laugh caught awkward and confused in her throat. Instead, she just accepts the hot dogs handed to her. Pat winks during the exchange. It seems impossible; Cara met the woman Din was seeing when she first joined their precinct. Omera was a firecracker all right, but beautiful, womanly. Nothing like Cara. 

There’s no _way_ that Din got that distracted by Cara’s biceps. Not like _that_.

Right?

\---

Captain Karga nearly falls out his chair laughing when she tells him about it.

“Shh,” Cara hisses, glancing awkwardly over her shoulder at where Din’s turned away at his desk. The Captain’s door is cracked open and his blinds are all up, so if Greef keeps this up then Din’s gonna ask what in the hell Cara _said_ to set him off like that, and she cannot tell him. Absolutely not. 

“Dune, holy shit,” Greef manages once he’s calmed down. He’s still got a shit-eating grin on his face. “Are you kidding me? What kind of a detective are you, huh?”

“Homicide,” Cara grits out, eyes narrowing. “And a damn good one.”

“Put those daggers away, Dune,” Greef says, rolling his own eyes. “No need to glare! I’m just _saying_ , anyone with sense can tell that _that_ man--” he points at Din’s back through the window “--is thirsty as _fuck_ for you.”

Cara stares.

Greef, unfortunately, keeps talking: “Okay, well. Maybe not _anyone_. Din’s got that whole stoic thing going on, after all. Not always easy to read his expression unless you know him. But _I_ know him, and _you_ know him -- are you, what? Trying to tell me that you never realized? Never even had an _inkling_? ‘Cause that’s absurd, the guy’s completely--”

Cara’s still staring.

Slowly, Greef’s grin fades. “Holy fuck,” he wheezes. “You really didn’t know.”

No. 

Cara did _not_ know.

“I just thought you weren’t interested!” 

“Huh. Well, this has been fun,” Cara manages to say after one more horrible moment of blank shock. “Thanks, Captain, I appreciate this. Really. It’s been… illuminating. And if you ever breathe a word of this conversation to _anyone_ , let alone Din, then--”

“I know, I know,” he sighs. “You’ll smother me in my sleep.”

Cara points at him. Smiles.

“You’re terrifying,” Greef complains. “Now get out of my office and please don’t fuck Din in the filing room, we just had it cleaned in there.”

Cara opens her mouth to respond, but--

 _That’s_ an image that’s going to take a moment to get around. 

She goes.

\---

It starts in the park with the tragic end of two perfectly edible hot dogs. And, if Cara were at all a decent person, it might have progressed like so: 

Cara goes up to Din and asks, “Is dinner next Friday at your house meant to be a date, or what?”

But the truth of the matter is that Cara is not and never has been and probably never _will_ be a decent person. Good, sure. Decent? Nah. Instead, she doesn’t say anything; doesn’t open up any lines of communication. That’d probably be the healthy approach, but Cara has something else in mind to test the theory. 

She starts stripping.

\---  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i guess it would have been easier to just reply to comments rather than writing a fic to thank everyone for screaming about gina/cara to me, but :') i couldn't resist.
> 
> thanks for reading! <3
> 
>  **edit** it occurred to me that when i say "stripping" people might actually think i mean STRIPPING, but no, cara does not become a stripper


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE WAIT, i am v slow and inconsistent (':

  
  
  
  
  


Of course, Cara doesn’t bother to plan anything out in advance, mostly because the next day is their off day. Din sends her a text too damn early in the morning to ask **Want to join us at the park?** and by the time Cara’s woken up and imbibed enough coffee to use her brain, it’s nearly afternoon and too late to join. Din’s sent her a video of his kid on the swings, though, and it’s painfully adorable.

**sorry** she sends back, **did NOT set an alarm today but wtf are you feeding him he’s too cute too big pls stop**

Cara’s never been that fond of kids; photos of babies are just weird and sort of gross to look at, and the idea of being pregnant makes her want to climb the tallest building without safety gear. But something about Din’s kid has gotten to her, she has to admit. Her chest feels all warm and full as she wanders around her apartment munching on toast and picking up laundry to be washed. 

Ten minutes later she gets a photo of the kid with applesauce all over his face and clothes while he attempts to mush a banana into his mouth. The resulting spectacle is fairly disgusting, and Cara can only hope that Din is just as covered in applesauce and banana, because that would be _hysterical_. 

He asks, **Still cute?**

It’s an easy question for her to answer: **something must be wrong with me lol but yes**

Apparently, her response nets her two new photos, one of which does, in fact, make good on her hope that Din is as equally covered in his kid’s lunch as the actual kid is. Their faces are squished together in it, Din grimacing just slightly as a banana-covered hand pats his nose. It’s disgusting and adorable and Cara wants to look at it all the damn time, so she puts it up as her phone’s wallpaper; it replaces the one she took last week in her apartment, Din passed out on her recliner with his kid wide awake and trying to furtively eat his hair.

Jesus Christ, she thinks. When the fuck did I get so attached? 

Standing in her kitchen and waiting for her second pot of coffee to finish brewing, Cara opens up her photo gallery and marvels, just for a moment, over how much of it has been taken over by Din and his toddler. There are a _lot_ of photos. Some of them even include Cara, and Cara has a moment where her whole body goes still and strange and fizzes very, very gently, and it feels--

She’s not really sure how it feels. Scary, wonderful, _strange_. 

Before she can stress about it her coffee maker beeps its surrender. Cara uses it as an excuse to restart her brain, closing out of all that evidence on how tangled up in each other’s lives she and Din have become. Apparently, she has a surplus of choices for favorite pic. So what? The two of them are fucking _cute_ , and no one can blame her for changing her wallpaper out so often. If they try, then Cara will _fight them_. 

She sips her coffee, despairs over how much laundry she still has strewn about her apartment, and sends back: **bath time is gonna be fun**

Din sends a frowny face at her. 

Cara smiles back.

\---

Thirty minutes later Cara sends her own photo of three too-small shirts with various animals printed on them, spread out atop her bulging hamper. **don’t think i shrunk these so they must belong to you**

**Hm. Don’t think they’d fit me.**

Cara rolls her eyes and starts a load of whites. **i'll bring them into work tomorrow**

There’s no immediate reply, but Cara’s used to long silences from Din whenever they’re texting. He’s a single dad, so there are plenty of at _least_ thirty minute stretches happening mid-conversation in which Cara just waits, idly wondering what the kid’s gotten up to this time. Part of the reason she likes it, she thinks, is because Din always tells her about whatever it is that happened. Or at least, he does now.

Three weeks is how long it took before he started opening up a lot more about his kid. Before that, Cara had given up on getting answers as to why Din disappeared so suddenly during their off-duty conversations. So it was definitely a surprise when he texted her after fifty minutes of radio silence with an awkwardly taken selfie of his kid sprawled asleep on his chest and the explanation: 

**Somehow… he hid himself inside a dresser drawer. I was about to call the cops when I heard him giggling.**

**holy shit** , Cara replied.

Which may have had more to do with how damned _soft_ Din looked in that photo, as well as the startling realization that he was trusting her. Din’s protective as hell of his kid, maybe more so since he’s adopted. The fact that Din was willing to offer up _any_ information without making Cara grill him for it was astounding.

Probably best not to make a big deal out of it, considering. 

So, right on the heels of her first text, she added: **you know you ARE the cops right?**

**...I panicked.**

**can’t say i blame you** , was all Cara could really think to send back. But apparently it had been enough to keep similar texts incoming, explanations and updates and stories and photos of Din at home in comfy sweats and mismatched socks and his kid in various states of mischief. Before Cara even realized it Din had made a home in her heart not just big enough for himself, but for the adorable little barnacle that came attached.

Cara can’t find it in herself to regret it, even as she finds not one, not two, but _seven_ tiny socks littered randomly about her apartment. By the time Din gets back to her she has an entire load comprised of _just_ his kid’s clothes.

**Thanks** , he says. **I have to bake apology cookies tonight. Kiddo tried to eat the neighbor’s cat again.**

**how does he not get scratched to hell and back???**

**I have no idea.**

Cara shakes her head and starts the last load of laundry. It’s already nearing evening, and she’s not quite sure where her day off disappeared. But despite that, she _does_ feel rested; relaxed and comfortable and in a pretty good mood, truth be told. So she scratches at her belly, sniffs her armpit; texts Din **gimme an hour to finish this last load and shower and i’ll be over**

**You want cookies that badly?** he asks.

**ha ha** , she sends back, **i’ve got a whole pile of your kid’s laundry i can’t bring it into the station unless you wanna go home with a suitcase or something. you make cookies, i’ll get dinner. tacos sound good?**

**Tacos sound great.**

\---

Needless to say, Cara does _not_ think about taking her clothes off strategically while watching Din’s kid spit shredded lettuce out later that evening, nor does she think about it when she’s sorting tiny clothing into a brightly painted dresser, trying her best not to melt over how damned fucking _small_ all these clothes are. It’s a good evening, Cara’s feeling _fond_ , and when she accidentally falls asleep on the couch and wakes up to the smell of Din pulling out a tray of cookies from the oven she--

Okay, yeah. 

The sight of Din baking makes her think about taking her clothes off.

But all Cara does is get up off the couch, stretch a bit, and then amble into the kitchen to ask, “Need some help taste testing those?”

The _look_ Din gives her in response is so good she has to take a photo of it.

\---

So, the day after the hot dog incident and Greef’s tell-all is a bust as far as implementing her new strategy goes, but Cara can’t find it in herself to be upset about it. Especially since the following day she and Din are back at work and it’s easy as anything to go ahead and test out this new theory, re: Din’s supposed thirst for her. Summer’s the perfect excuse. The A/C in the precinct is for shit; with the sun pressing hard through the myriad of high windows it gets warm by mid-morning. Too many bodies, too many machines whirring, too many layers of clothing. 

And Cara, instead of leaving her shirt on all day, takes it off.

The beauty of this strategy, she thinks, is how easy it is to implement. Their desks butt up against each other, which would be a little claustrophobic if they didn’t get on so well and if they didn’t sit diagonal; Din on one side and Cara across from him on the other, so that there’s at least the illusion of space between them. 

What it also does is this: keep them in view of each other at all times.

Since Din is seated in his customary spot across from her, that means there’s no way he can avoid witnessing what’s happening over on Cara’s side. Especially since stripping the shirt off isn’t easy. Cara’s arms really are big, bigger than most shirts made for women. These button downs aren’t too bad which is why Cara has so many of them and likes to wear them in the first place, but even then it takes a bit of tugging, especially since she’s sitting down. She has to roll her shoulders and shimmy a bit, arching her back to finish wriggling out of it.

It takes her a minute, but she does remember that the point of all of this is to gauge Din’s supposed level of thirst for her, so she glances carefully up through her lashes as she finishes shrugging out of her shirt, just to check if it’s doing anything for him. Despite everything that’s led her to this point, she still doesn’t actually expect Din to be giving her anything more than a skeptical look. But--

Holy _shit_ , Cara thinks.

She blinks, startled, before grasping at her coffee mug in order to pretend like nothing weird is going on at all. 

Because yeah, _yeah_. Apparently Cara’s work appropriate strip tease _is_ doing something for Din, and though it probably shouldn’t be a surprise considering the hot dog thing -- there’s a _reason_ she’s testing this, after all -- it manages to surprise Cara nonetheless. She can’t help thinking again: holy shit.

Din is staring at her, eyes a little wider than normal. It’s a subtle reaction, and if Cara didn’t know him, if she weren’t looking for it, she probably never would have noticed a difference in his expression. 

But she _is_ looking. 

Then she looks a little harder and is fascinated to realize that his jaw is actually dropped a bit, mouth softly open. For the moment, it doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. Cara absolutely cannot keep herself from doing what she does next, which is lift her head to give him a lazy smirk and ask, “Nearly finished with that report?” before running a careless hand through her hair so she can deliberately flex her bicep at him. 

Din remembers how to breathe with a sharp, flustered inhale. 

It’s about all Cara can do to keep her smirk from widening, from giving away that she’s up to something. She doesn’t know how she’d explain it if Din were to realize she’s doing this purposely; she still hasn’t really examined her own reasoning, after all, or what it might mean -- what she _wants_ it to mean. 

Possibly, she’s been actively avoiding it.

But that doesn’t stop her from feeling smug about the way Din swallows _hard_ , blinking rapidly as he turns back to his computer, tapping savagely at his keyboard. 

“Hm,” is all he says. 

The truly hysterical thing is this: Cara knows he’s not doing any actual work.

When she came over to join him after her last coffee refill his computer wasn’t even turned on. Cara’s been paying attention, so she knows he hasn’t gotten around to waking the old beast up yet, which means his fingers on the keys are doing jack shit, but he keeps typing anyway, looking mutinous.

Cara watches him pretend to work for a moment, sipping at the dregs of her coffee. It’s true that she’s not really sure how to feel about the idea that Din Djarin has the hots for her yet, but this? This right here?

This is fucking funny. 

“Din,” she says, grinning against the cold rim of her mug. 

He glances at her, quick and then away. “What?”

“The Springer report?”

His fingers still. Slowly, his shoulders creep around his ears, hunching up. “Right,” he says. “The-- you asked about it?”

“Yeah,” Cara says, trying not to laugh. “Asked if you were nearly finished?”

“Mm.” 

“You working on it now?”

His shoulders creep even higher as he mutters, “Does it _look_ like I’m working on it?”

“Yeah,” Cara says, tasting victory. She half-rises from her chair, sure to keep one hand planted on her desk. It keeps her bent forward, cleavage on display and muscles in her arm all standing out in relief from holding her weight. “Sure does. Can I take a look?”

He twitches, as Cara knew he would. Backed into a corner, he turns defensive, asking: “What’s with the twenty questions, Dune?” 

“What’s with the attitude, Djarin?”

She’s watching him closely, as closely as she did when she first started working here. Back when he was a stranger she’d been assigned to, when they’d both circled each other warily before falling fast into respect and trust. Faster than Cara thinks she ever has with anyone since-- well, a long time. She thinks back to the other night, of Din offering her the couch if she was too tired or lazy to drive back to her own place, and how difficult it was to get his kid to let her go when she’d hugged him goodbye.

Well, shit.

That’s a kick in the feels, she thinks. The reminder of how important they are to her is almost enough to make her waver, make her retreat in guilt and shame that she’s deliberately fucking with Din like this, risking their relationship just to-- to what?

She’s still not fucking sure. 

But before she has a chance to straighten up and quit her experimentation, Din turns to glower at her. And as soon as Din gets an eyeful of her pose it’s too late to backtrack: he chokes on his own spit and starts coughing.

_Oops_ , Cara thinks, and then leans a little more lewdly. 

Because fuck it. It’s too late now to pull back, so she may as well go full tilt. Also, despite the slight moral dilemma, it’s still funny as _fuck_.

“Yikes,” Cara says as innocently as she knows how. “You okay?”

Din’s fingers clutch at the edge of his desk, knuckles gone white. He’s trying not to stare at her cleavage; Cara does her best to make it impossible. The coughing gets worse. 

“ _Hargh_ ,” is about all Din manages to say.

Cara bites down on a grin. “Hold up, I’ll go get you some water, partner.”

In reply, Din ducks his head down, turning away from her to hide his face in one crooked arm against the desk, _still_ coughing. Cara straightens out slowly and tips her empty mug Din’s way in a casual salute. Not that he sees it.

Chuckling, Cara goes to get that water.

When she gets back from the breakroom, coffee mug refilled and steaming in one hand, a plastic cup of cold water in the other for Din, he’s gotten his computer booted up and the report she’d been asking about on the screen. Cara smiles at him, perching on the edge of his desk. “Here,” she says, holding out the plastic for him to take, just to make him look at her again.

“Thanks,” he mutters, accepting the water with a steady enough hand. 

He seems mostly recovered from Cara’s teasing, and only stares a little wide-eyed at Cara’s inner thigh stretching out along the line of his desk. His mouth _does_ get tight, however, like it does whenever he’s edging toward frustrated, and Cara almost feels bad again; but Din only huffs, turning back toward the monitor and sipping carefully at the water, like nothing at all is the matter.

Cara might just believe him, if it weren’t for the fact that the back of his neck is still faintly flushed.

It’s a pretty look on him, Cara thinks. She kind of wants to press her mouth there, to brush aside the curling ends of his hair and kiss skin. Wants to taste that lingering blush and delight in knowing that _she’s_ the one that put it there, but--

That’s not the game she’s playing. 

Instead, Cara nudges the arm of his chair with her dangling knee and simply says, “All right, show me what we’re looking at here.”

\---

For the rest of that day Cara forgets to tease. Work takes over. When they head out to chase down a lead she pulls her shirt back on, only thinking about looking presentable while on the job. Shit gets done; one case is closed by the end of their shift, but two of their three others have them frustrated. Cara’s thinking about staying at the station to keep working through the night when Din, who has a real life and a kid to get back to, does that thing he does: 

“If you stay,” Din says mildly, “then I’ve gotta stay.”

“No,” Cara grunts out. “You really don’t.”

He’s ready to leave, desk all tidied up and computer powered down, his jacket on. But instead of _leaving_ , he’s leaning against the side of her desk and staring down at her with his arms folded casually over his chest. At Cara’s rebuttal he still doesn’t leave, just goes quiet long enough that Cara finally stops glaring blearily at the files spread out on her desk so she can glare blearily at _him_. 

“Stop it,” she says.

“Stop what?”

Cara glares harder. “The thing you do where you bully me with _kindness_ , Djarin. I’m a big girl, I’ll be fine.”

It’s true, too. Cara’s always fine, even when she’s not. Because the world isn’t always kind and people often cruel, so Cara learned a long time ago how to go her own path and depend only on herself, damage be damned. 

Cara doesn’t need help or coddling just because she’s in a _mood_. If Din left right now, it would be no big thing. 

But Din just looks at her another moment before he finally shifts, stands, and-- turns on his heel to seat himself back at his own desk. He’s not looking at her. He unzips his jacket, shrugs it off onto the back of his chair like he’s getting cozy. “I’ll message Kuiil, tell him I’ll be late getting home,” he says to her as he’s reaching over the divide of coffee mugs, photo frames and knick knacks, to snag one of Cara’s files. 

She catches an edge of it before he can retreat. Din finally meets her eyes, refusing to let go; they sit there, hunched awkwardly over their desks with a stupid fucking file for a god damn beast of a case pulled taut between them.

When Cara asks, “The _fuck is wrong with you_ ,” all Din says back is, “We’re partners, aren’t we?” 

God _damn_ it.

For a long moment Cara keeps glaring, working her clenched jaw back and forth. Din always fucking wins when this happens; even on the rare occasions Cara has stubbornly kept her ass in her chair until one in the morning and people are begging her to stop harrassing the night shift, Din always wins because he always _stays there with her_. 

“Kuiil isn’t going to babysit for you if you keep doing this to him,” Cara warns.

Din shrugs one shoulder slightly. “He’s a good guy. He’ll understand.” 

Thing is, Din’s right. Cara’s met Kuiil before; guy’s got a heart of gold, even if she always seems to find herself arguing with him about one thing or another. Third time it happened, Din stopped trying to play mediator, just sat back and popped open a beer at the kitchen table and let them bicker over health care until they were both red in the face. 

_Free entertainment_ he’d claimed, when Cara first called Din out on it. _Also, I know when a strategic retreat is called for. There’s no getting the two of you to behave for longer than three minutes. I may as well accept it._

Point is: Cara’s not winning this argument.

“Fine,” she says. “ _Fine_. Give me five minutes to put these back.”

Din slowly lets go of the purloined file, face carefully blank but dark eyes warm, soft enough that Cara can’t hold his gaze. Shaking her head, she closes up shop, muttering about irritating dad-cops who think they know what’s best for her; Din, of course, smiles faintly when he hears that.

And as always, Cara is stupidly grateful that he cares.

—-

Once they hit the pavement outside, Cara grunts out, “See you, Djarin,” and turns away. 

Because Cara knows how to be fine, but sometimes Din makes it hard to remember that she _needs_ to be. And sometimes it’s a little harder to deal with how much she likes being here, being Din’s partner and friend. Hard to deal with how much she _wants_ , when she’d gotten so very good at not wanting anything at all anymore.

Most days she can forget that she’s on loan, that all this might be temporary. Even if Greef fights to keep her, she doesn’t know if it’ll work out. Doesn’t know if she’ll be able to keep what she’s found here; the trust, the kindness, the camaraderie. 

But she wants it to work out; hopes that it might. She’s not so good at being optimistic anymore, but she thinks she’s getting better at it.

Sometimes, though, all she can do is try and run.

That’s how she’s feeling now, startled and aching and all of a sudden half-feral from being emotionally compromised, heart a little too tight and warm and painful. The ache’s familiar, but not anything she’s used to yet. It gets worse when she recalls the way he’d put a hand on her shoulder, nudging her firmly toward the elevator.

So she takes a quick step toward where her bike is parked, ready to escape. 

Din probably knows; it’s not like he’s a stranger to her issues. But he says, “Dune--” like he wants to ask her something.

She glances over her shoulder, steps slowing. “What?”

He just looks back at her, head tilted and eyes roving, taking in the defensive posture she couldn’t help slipping into. That half-feral feeling of being _trapped_ gets worse. Her fingers curl into fists, though her steps finally still. It’s all she can do to let him look, to let him realize that she’s not in a place for more comfort right now. She shifts, restless, and Din’s eyes flicker before he turns away, calling out, “See you tomorrow, Cara.”

It’s kind of him; Cara’s heart aches some more.

She turns and leaves. Gets on her bike and has to force herself to keep near to the speed limit on her way home. In the morning, she’ll be better. She’ll be _fine_. For now, she lets the wind batter at her worries and fears, and tries not to think of the back of Din’s neck, gently flushed and utterly kissable.

\---  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i gave up trying to make this any good because it was stressing me out too much, so here's hoping that it makes sense and wasn't too difficult a read. in any case: happy v-day & thanks so much for reading! <3


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